The Wanderer and the New West

by Adam Bender

  “Listen to me, Joe! You can still help. They used to do atomic bomb tests in the desert not far from here. There should be a switch somewhere upstairs to turn on the —”

  “Nuclear evacuation siren!” exclaimed Lin, suddenly emboldened. “And I know how to send wireless alerts to people’s phones!”

  Jack nodded encouragingly. Funny how he’d forgotten about the modern warning system, which allowed emergency services to send alerts to any wireless device in a designated location. Of course Joe would know that. After all, he’d been a firefighter before this mess had happened.

  When Lin was nearly at the stairs, Jack called frantically, “Wait! Before you go, you’ve got to let me out of here! I have to find my little boy!”

  Lin picked up the keys and stared uncertainly at the metal objects clutched between his fingers.

  “Please, Joe! Don’t make me beg!”

  Jack didn’t need to. It was clear from the militiaman’s drooping shoulders that he would relent. Lin tossed the chain in Jack’s direction and ran up the stairs. The keys fell on the floor a couple feet short of the cell, but maybe it was close enough. Heart racing, Jack fell to his knees and reached through the bars. When he couldn’t get it, he howled for Lin to return. All he received in return was the wail of the nuclear evacuation siren, low at first and then rising into a terrible metal scream. Now Lin would never hear him.

  Jack’s phone beeped from across the jail. That would be the emergency alert. Now he had two warnings to get the hell out of Liberty, yet here he was, trapped in a cage. What would the Red Stripe Gang do when they discovered him down here? He didn’t want to know. But what the hell could he do?

  Unless …

  He lowered himself all the way to the floor and got onto his right side. With the better angle, his arm stretched farther through the bars, and his middle finger touched the edge of one of the keys. Ignoring the sweat pouring down his brow, he dragged the chain toward him.

  *

  Ben Martin absorbed the panicked faces of oncoming traffic swerving around either side of his Chevy. Many of the vehicles had pieces of furniture strapped to their tops or piled in their flat beds. Martin’s black SUV and the other three trucks belonging to his militia seemed to be the only ones traveling into Liberty. He was the farthest back in the line and couldn’t see much of the town over the tops of the other trucks, but one thing he did catch was the bell tower on top of town hall catching fire.

  “Did you see that?” cried Larry Wilkins, who was riding next to him in the passenger seat. “Oh dear lord!”

  There was a break in the traffic and the three trucks in front of him fanned out so that they were side by side and taking up the entire width of road. Ben Martin trailed behind them, creating a formation that looked like the bottom half of a plus sign. There was a Jeep on each wing with a red Ford pickup truck between them. Ben Martin slowed as the others flashed their brake lights.

  Now completely stopped, the sheriff couldn’t see beyond the trucks to learn what was holding them up. He was thinking more evacuees until Mad May leaned out of the Jeep Wrangler on the left side with a Yossarian in her muscular arms. He could also see Velasquez’s hand hanging out the driver window of the Ford with a Breck 17.

  “What are they doing?” Martin asked Wilkins. The other man stared blankly, so he got on the radio and asked the question directly. “What are you doing?”

  Static. Pop.

  “Here they come.” said a man’s voice. Velasquez, based on the accent.

  Martin clicked his radio. “Who?”

  “Riders!” The militiaman’s voice cut out. “— coming up the road to — there must be at least six —”

  A thunderstorm of bullets sprayed into the Ford. In horror, Martin watched the head of Velasquez flop to the side like someone had cut the strings. Mad May returned fire from the left wing, but a bullet clipped her through the exposed frame of the Jeep.

  The pop of the passenger door roused Martin from his trance. Wilkins was going to try to make a run for it. The sheriff grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back, but the unnerved militiaman ripped himself free and bolted for the mountains. A cackling Red Striper trailed Wilkins out into the desert, kicking up a storm of dust behind his black motorcycle. The gangster pulled alongside the militiaman, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him along the ground.

  Ben Martin didn’t wait for the gunshot. Cranking the steering wheel left and planting his boot on the gas pedal, he forced the SUV into a squealing turn and sped off-road, into the desert. With bullets slapping the back of the truck and the passenger door flapping in the wind, Martin sped away from the gangsters and his fellow militiamen. A couple of motorcycles took chase after him but appeared slowed by the uneven ground. In his rearview mirror, Martin saw the pickup truck explode in a massive fireball that knocked his friends’ Jeeps onto their sides.

  EXCLUSIVE: THE TRUE IDENTITY OF THE WANDERER!

  By Rosa Veras

  The Wanderer is Errol Breck, son of Albert Breck, the late founder and CEO of Breck Ammunition.

  Errol is Al’s oldest son and was in line to take over the company following his father’s death. However, when Errol shot his wife during a home invasion, he left Las Vegas to wander the country on a mission of redemption.

  Errol told The New West that the death of his wife was an accident.

  “I didn’t mean to kill her,” he said. “I really did think there was another intruder. The one in the kitchen had a gun, and so I thought … but then I saw Helen … and she was just dead. There wasn’t even a chance of getting her to the hospital.”

  He fled the scene. The police attributed the death of Helen Breck to murder by house burglars and declared Errol missing.

  “There was no place for me in Vegas,” he said. “I didn’t want the gun company. I had to start over.”

  Leaving behind the life he knew, Errol turned himself into the rogue gunman in the Stetson hat we now know as the Wanderer. In the months following the death of his wife, he has wandered the New West helping others find justice.

  Now the Wanderer’s journey has brought him back to Vegas. Errol Breck told The New West that he intends to take back his father’s gun company. He pledged to fix the mistakes made by his stepbrother Gerard and make serious reforms to how Breck Ammunition does business.

  “I want to keep guns out of the hands of the Red Stripe Gang and other criminals,” he said. “I aim to convince the Board of Breck Ammunition that they should oust my stepbrother and vote me in as the new CEO.”

  He added, “I don’t expect anyone to forgive me for what I’ve done, but I hope you will support me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  You’ve Still Got a Brother.

  Rosa took a deep breath as the article went live. She was sitting next to the Wanderer in a room in the Breck Estate that used to serve as Errol’s personal office.

  “It’s good,” he said. “It’ll work.”

  She believed that he approved, but he didn’t sound happy. “What’s wrong?”

  Slowly, the Wanderer removed the Stetson from his head and put it in his lap.

  “I’ve known Gerard since I was twelve,” said Errol. “I … wonder if I could have prevented all this if I’d acted differently to him growing up.”

  Rosa shook her head. “From what you told me about him before, he’s always been a bad seed.”

  “He never had a father. His real one left when he was little. He wanted my dad to love him, but it never was enough. And then, after the accident —”

  “The accident?”

  “It was a car accident. He was with his mother. Gerard was driving. Something happened. Gerard went speeding through a red light and a big truck slammed into them. His mother — my dad’s second wife, Iris — died instantly. And Dad never really forgave Gerard.”

  “God,” breathed Rosa.

  “Can you blame him? Gerard killed his wife.” The life drained from Errol’s face as he added, “I guess I have more in c
ommon with my dad than I thought.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that, so she put her arm around his shoulder instead. He turned to her, eyes wide with regret.

  “I should’ve visited Gerard in the hospital or at least have come home for Iris’s funeral. It’s just … I was in my freshman year of college and was caught up in that whole world. I didn’t think I had time to come back. I guess I kept thinking I’d see Gerard on my next visit home, but then Dad sent him away to a boarding school to finish his primary education. I didn’t end up seeing him again until we were both done with school and had jobs within Breck Ammo. Even then, it was always business. I married Helen, and got caught up in my life with her. More than fifteen years went by during which I barely saw Gerard at all. I didn’t have any time for my screwed-up stepbrother. We didn’t really talk again until Dad’s funeral. And when we did, I could hear so much resentment in his voice. He knew I was in line to take over the company, and he didn’t think I deserved it.”

  Errol scowled deeply and shook his head. “I should have seen this coming.”

  Rosa placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “You can’t blame yourself for the things Gerard has done, Errol. It doesn’t matter how hard his life was. The only destiny you can control is your own.”

  He picked the Stetson up from his lap, nodded, and put it back on his head. “I should get ready.”

  Rosa got the feeling he wasn’t talking about figuring out what to wear to the board meeting. As he stood up to leave, she said, “Maybe you won’t have to fight him. Maybe there’s still a chance to have a relationship with him.”

  In a low rumble, the Wanderer replied, “I reckon it’s too late for that.”

  *

  The Breck Estate’s largest room was a garage completely devoid of vehicles. Al Breck had used it as a workshop and it was here that he had developed the concepts for many of his guns. The cars he’d kept outside.

  After his funeral, however, dust had covered the once grand workshop. Errol had never gotten around to cleaning it up. All the tools were just where his father had left them.

  Sitting at a large workbench, the Wanderer flipped open the latches of a beat-up wooden case and peered warmly inside at an array of brushes and rods. The cleaning kit had been a birthday present from his father. To the right, Errol placed glass bottles of Breck No. 12 solvent, Breck lubricating oil, and Brand-X lemon oil. Each was about a quarter full and the labels had begun to peel off. In front of the bottles, the Wanderer’s silver Lassiter rested on a worn black pad.

  All this time he’d spent blaming himself for Helen’s death, and yet it had been Gerard the whole time. Why did his stepbrother hate him so? Why couldn’t he ever let him be happy? Gerard had been gunning for him since the day he moved into the mansion with his mother, but this time he’d truly crossed the line.

  The Wanderer double-checked the cylinders and barrel for any bullets still inside. Finding none, he dipped a bore brush into the cleaning solvent, then pushed it through the front of the barrel until it came out the back. He pulled it back and repeated the motion several times. Next, he took a cleaning patch from the kit and attached it to a rod. He dipped this into the solvent, feeding it through the barrel, then following it with two dry ones. He repeated this process several times also. When the barrel was clean, he went to work repeating these steps in each of the chambers on the cylinder.

  And to think, just yesterday, Gerard had sat right across from him at the table, looked him square in the eyes, and threatened to tell the world that Errol Breck was responsible for Helen’s death. The liar!

  He took a copper toothbrush and cleaned around the muzzle and the rear cylinder opening of the long-barreled revolver. With another dip of the toothbrush, he went to work brushing the cylinder on the outside and the ends, followed by the extractor rod. He cocked back the hammer and brushed around that area, too.

  “I’m going to kill him,” he muttered under his breath.

  The Wanderer reassembled the gun, picked up a clean cloth, and dripped some of the gun lubricant onto it. With this he wiped the silver exterior of the gun. After drying off the excess oil, he used a Breck-branded silicone gun cloth to polish the steel. Feeling quite calmed by this cleaning of the Lassiter, he drew out the process longer than perhaps was needed. Breathing the lingering smell of solvent in through his nose, the Wanderer smiled with satisfaction.

  “I’m going to kill him,” he said louder.

  Finishing with the steel, he applied lemon oil to another rag and wiped that over the ebony handle, restoring the wood’s dark glow. As he rested the gun back on the pad to let it soak in, Errol heard the dancing footsteps of Kid Hunter come into the garage.

  “Whoa!” gasped Charlie, spinning to take in the full size of the garage. “You’ve got a dope setup in here!”

  He smiled slightly. “It belonged to my father. Feel free to use it if you need to maintain your gun. Or do you have to send yours back to Canada for reprogramming?”

  “Shut up, man. It’s a good gun, and Canada ain’t so bad, either.” He dropped a friendly hand on Errol’s shoulder. “Getting ready?”

  The Wanderer didn’t answer.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it, but I just came in here to say … look, I’m not one for flowery speeches, and I know you really ain’t one for ’em, either, so I’ll try and make this short. I want to thank you for giving me a chance back in Freetown. I know you didn’t want to, but you did.”

  The Wanderer smiled. “I reckon I saw something in you. And I was right. You done good, Kid.”

  “Thanks man, but I just wish there was some way to pay you back.”

  “Why don’t you pay it forward, instead?”

  Charlie nodded. He made to leave, but turned back with a look of embarrassment. “Don’t tell Rosa about our little talk, all right? You know how she is.”

  “Heh.”

  “Oh, and just one other thing I wanted to say.”

  “Say it.”

  “Gerard is family. He sure ain’t good family, but still, it can’t be easy for you.”

  Errol didn’t know how to respond, but he nodded to show he was listening.

  “Well, I just wanted you to know that no matter what happens with Gerard … you’ve still got a brother.”

  “Thanks, Charlie … brother.” Errol stood up and held out a hand to shake.

  Charlie pulled him in for a quick hug and slap on the back, then moseyed over to the door. “All right, bro, I’ll leave you to it. I’d better get ready, too.”

  The Wanderer finished drying the ebony handle of the Lassiter, and then reached down the workbench for the next gun to be cleaned. It was the bad gun, but he knew it could be good again.

  *

  Gerard breathed loudly through his nostrils as Elza told him about Errol’s plan to oust him from the company. When she was finished, he shut his eyes and shifted into a state of frozen introspection. He felt Elza’s hand fall on his shoulder, but he shook it off.

  “Get me the police,” he said in a level baritone. “Now.”

  The assistant dialed and handed him the phone. Calmly, Gerard explained to the chief of police why Errol Breck needed to be arrested immediately. However, the chief sounded disengaged. He kept saying, “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” without committing to any action.

  Gerard was confused. “You are going to arrest him, right?”

  “No,” said the chief of police.

  “What?”

  He felt himself tense up as the cop told him that he wouldn’t reopen the case on Helen Breck, that he wouldn’t take down Errol for what he’d done.

  “What is it you want?” he seethed. “Money? More guns?”

  “It’s over, Gerard,” said the chief.

  “It’s not over!” Breck screamed into the receiver, unable to contain the anger any longer. “I’ll take all your guns away! From the entire fucking police force! Then what will you do?”

  The chief just laughed. “To be honest, I’m not worried. You�
��re not going to be CEO for long.”

  Gerard tossed the phone across the room and turned his anger upon Elza. “Why won’t they fucking listen to me?”

  She was swiping up vertically on the screen of a tablet. “Because America has turned against you,” she said with annoying certainty in her voice.

  He snatched the device from her. It was a social media feed of mentions by people on the Internet about Breck Ammunition.

  CalvinCool:

  Gerard Breck is dangerous. No more deals with Red Stripe Gang! #ErrolBreck4CEO

  BigFat Stan:

  Hahahaha! Jarrard Breck just got screwed by @TheNewWest!

  HeartStar911:

  Errol, we love you and forgive you!

  SpyBoyRo0lz:

  The Wanderer should TOTALLY be in charge of Breck Ammo. #ForReal

  RhondaSweets:

  Breck Ammo better kick out Gerard ASAP. #ErrolBreck4CEO

  He staggered. “What … but how did he…?”

  “Many of the posts link to an article on The New West.”

  He pressed the link, opening an article with the headline, Exclusive: The True Identity of the Wanderer! The story read like his own death sentence. At the end of every paragraph, Gerard muttered, “I’m going to kill him.” The statement grew louder and more certain each time he said it.

  “Yes,” Elza said, drawing closer. “It is the only way.”

  He smelled hyacinth on Elza’s skin, and a strange calm passed over him like a warm blanket. “How long do we have before the board meeting?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The World’s Changed.

  The parking lot of the police station looked clear, but Jack smelled smoke. In the valleys of the nuclear evacuation siren, he could hear a roar of motorcycles from Main Street a few blocks away. Something from that direction exploded, and the noise of it brought Jack down into a protective crouch.

  Gathering his courage, he got up and ran for the back of the parking lot where he’d left his blue Chevy. When he got there, he cried out, “You have got to be kidding me!”